Pandemonium's The Word
The world is falling apart today,
somebody's dropped the bomb.
Fire is raining from the sky,
and the Devil's knocking at our front door.
Armies parade the streets today,
People drop like flies.
Gunshots are heard outside the house
and a light fills the sky above the city.
The aftermath has devastated,
Not a soul was left alive.
The culprit gives a toothy smile,
And puts his big red button back in his pocket.
Emo?Emo?Emo?9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is it really that bad?
you cant accept the fact
that i get a little sad?
that i am a little mad?
so i favor black
and i dont like pink
you use those as reasons
to make my soul sink
so some of us cut
and some of us dont
we can smile
laugh love and live
we're just not like the rest
sure we cry
we want to die
but none of you understand
its not like we had planned
to live life like this
to spend our days
depressed and amiss
we're not bad people
we dont worship satan
we're not out to kill anyone
we just dont like the world
as much as everyone else
and we dont like ourselves
as much as we could
but we're ok with that
you can call us ugly
you can call us fat
but you cant change who we are
we are emo
whats so wrong with that?
ParkourBeauty is bodies in motion.Parkour9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
With the liquid movement of muscles,
Our generation is spreading its wings.
We don't tear down your walls;
We spring and scramble over.
We leap like wild things
Over your obstacles, your rules.
Freedom is personified.
SEXThis poem is about sex.SEX8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(yeah, that got your attention)
This poem is about sex.
This poem is about love.
This poem is about living in your sexuality
instead of being afraid of it.
This poem is about saying fuck you
to everyone who told you
This poem is about the sin so natural
it takes you to heaven on earth.
This poem is about turning the key,
finding your voice,
making your own choice.
This poem is about independence,
instead of buying into all their misery.
150 pages of health text book telling you
6 years of administration telling you
6 years of scaring you
out of whats instinctual.
6 years of alarmist tactics,
and no information
setting a social taboo
so they can control how we live our lives.
InsaneInsane.Insane10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
People call me insane.
How do they know?
Can anyone truly say what is insane?
And what isn't?
Who can judge? Everyone.
Who has the right? No one.
They are not mind-readers.
They have no way of knowing
What is inside my head.
Even if I write it down,
It is changing all the time.
Points of view, opinions.
The next second they become old
And new ones take their place.
Constantly changing, evolving,
Inside my head.
Always questioning, thinking,
Reasoning, and imagining.
Insane? I don't think so.
Truth is a matter of opinion
Everyone is insane
At the exact time
That no one is.
Why must people call me insane?
Why must they fear me?
Is it me they fear
Or what will come out of their mouths
If I prod long enough?
Are they afraid of opinions
And actual thoughts,
Or is it just
Tiny, insignificant me?
Why must people fear
What they do not understand?
Worse of all,
They don't try to understand.
They just stick a label on me, POP!
I am crazy.
GermanI told Johann that German was a disgusting languageGerman10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
full of grunts and hairballs and
harsh hateful aryan marches
and anger and terror
and words that got caught in the back of your mouth
like old toosie rolls and crunchy peanut butter
And he spoke to me in German
of an intimate and romantic language
of patent engineers huddled over brilliant inventions
of piano tuners listening intently
tenderly coaxing strings little by little
of musicians that transcribed the beauty and simplicity of little stone chapels
he spoke German
like it was a mysteriously lovely poem
with fierce pride and protection in his voice
he spoke German
and his eyes softened with affection for his nation
he spoke German
and it was quiet
Gay L.O.V.E.Gay L.O.V.E.12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
L is for Lonely.
What we all are until we find that special person to which we share our hearts and souls. That single person that brightens our darkest days. That is there to comfort us when we're sad. Can give us strength when we are at our weakest. That will be there to tell us when we're wrong, or stand behind us when we're right. That single person that means more to us then life itself…
O is for no Option.
Please understand. Love is not an optional thing. It doesn't ask our permission first. It won't even give us any warning. It will just come along and fill that empty space in our hearts. You never know with who, or when it will find you, though when it does…you'll surely know it. It will be the greatest feeling in the world…
V is for Virtue.
It's for being able to stand against all odds with the one we love. It's for not being afraid of who knows we care for this person. Not letting what others think mar our decision for happiness. It's
Mr. President - LezzieLexi2...Come here,Mr. President - LezzieLexi2...9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Let me show something.
And look over this crowd.
What do you see here?
"Good Americans who vote,"
"Well dressed, business
Yes, that is who they are.
Now take a look
What do you see?
"A sea of rainbow,"
"Too much pride,"
I am bringing up
From either crowd.
Look at this woman
What do you see?
"A hard working
Who knows what she's doing."
Yes, she is.
Now look at this man.
What do you see?
"A gay man
Who flaunts everything
And a man who
begs for marriage
And is too proud
For his own good"
That is where you
This man is a gay man,
But he is also a hard working
Who knows what he's doing.
This is a hard-working
But she is also
Who flaunts it
When shes done with work
GothicGothic11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Cliche as a term
very miss represented
so I wear black alot
its my favorite shade/color
I may have chains, nets, and collars
but who cares no biggie
thats not real gothic
the essence of gothic
is truelly in the soul
the darkest corners of your mind
where all things morbid and dark rest
that is the place where I lay
that is the true essence of gothic
Its not the black clothes
or make-up and acessories
but the dark threads
weaved in your very mind
the total corruption of yourself
the term gothic has adapted
to the new cliches so much over the years
its true meanings has become lost
and listening to everyone
toss around these cliche titles/terms
is so egotistical and conceited
its no longer funny
AnarchyAnarchy,Anarchy12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A life of individual responsibility
A system of Government
With but one law,
Bring no pain to others.
So why are anarchists viewed as villains?
Because of people who claim anarchy
To order to bring about the destruction of peace,
Causing a whirlpool of truth and lies,
Confusing the observer,
While observing the confused.
The Antichrist is pain.
ParkourPushing the limits of society's realityParkour8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Always moving; ever flowing
Reaching for new heights in order to be free
Kick off walls; never slowing
Opening pathways where others see barriers
Under the rail, off the building
Re-modelling one's paradigm of the world..
When I Will Tell ChildrenWhen I am a mother my hair will be wavesWhen I Will Tell Children10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like the hair of my mother before me.
My children will long to lay mortar.
In the heart of this city I'll show them
a towering slender steel building which tapers, is topped by
a drunkard's idea of spacecraft. I'll tell them,
"America pierces the sky with a saucer
for nothing except for so people can reach it,
so people can pay for the fact they have reached it.
America's captured a sky, and the sky was not always
as blue as the eyes of my parents before me."
In the heart of my home in the dark
I will say to my children
as we are all crouched in the corner,
"Be silent, American hivelings. Be still
lest the naked bear get thee."
When I am an elder my hair will be sparse
like the hair of the old folks before me.
I'll say to the children, who swarm my stiff knees
and who long to spread outwards,
"God does not pick sides, but we chose him.
We are his choosing people. We've claimed him.
America's planted a flag on the moon
All-AmericanI have a friendAll-American9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
With chocolate-colored skin that turns gunmetal in the sun.
Society calls her African-American.
I've never liked that.
It never made sense,
Seeing as we both came over to the New World on boats
At the same time.
She is no more African than I am Dutch;
She knows no more of masks and drums
Than I do of klompen and windmills,
And if anything,
It seems to make far more sense
To go ahead and call us black and white--
We are at least on level ground that way--
As her brown skin is no more black
Than my pink is white
And even she has told me
That to be black is better
Because black is so much more to her
Than a cold and dark and distant Africa.
Oh, but Society, if black is too harsh,
Call us something softer:
Call us chocolate and vanilla.
Call us mahogany and birch.
Call us Coke and Sprite.
call us dirty and pure.
We are both Americans
Born of American parents
That were born of American parents.
call her African-hyphen,
For what gives me, the white,
The Atheist's BibleAnd the Lord said, "Well, to be quite honest, I think you're all rather delusional."The Atheist's Bible8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
My First and Last War PoemWhen he came back from the war,My First and Last War Poem9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
all he saw was shrapnel.
Not like the sort on the battlefield,
at home there were no bodies,
there was no thick sticky blood on his hand,
She stood at the beach,
brushed back a strand of hair
a jellyfish washed onto shore.
She knew only the dead were that clear
and it reminded her of the poisonings:
dead cats and dogs curled in balls along the sidewalk
after some jerk littered the doorsteps
steaks marinated in cyanide.
instead, he watched his family,
watched himself at the dinner
table as if he weren't even eating
swallowed the potatoes and wondered
"where is the metallic flavor;"
"where is the gritty dirt?"
And there was that other time
she was walking in some forest,
and there was this stag
limp in the dirt,
coat the same color as the mud,
speckled in hovering flies,
an arrow wound under it's chest
and only the antlers taken for trophy.
He doesn't know how to go to the grocery
anymore, how to pick out a ripe pear.
He squints to read t
Reintegracao de PosseReintegração de PosseReintegracao de Posse4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
para construir suas muralhas
matam o bebê ainda dentro da barriga
mas não fazem o mesmo com seus filhos
Não olham em seus rostos
e das velhas moradias
sobrarão só os escombros
Vendem a vida de famílias
para enriquecer suas companhias
enquanto suas filhas vadias
vendem o corpo por mil libras
Tiram o teto dos necessitados
à base de bala de borracha
jogam-lhes no buraco
tratam-lhes como trapos
como pedras no sapato
Tiranos, queimem no inferno!
Tiranos, cuidado, perfuraremos o seu terno!
8 horas e 59 minutos de 2 de fevereiro de 2012.
Flowers on the RazorwireWe could never fashion flight from our broken boned epiphaniesFlowers on the Razorwire4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(Or raise our shattered glasses to the red on her lips)
But anaemic as horses we parade them through these streets
Revolution is nothing but progress here
Perched on razorwire fences
Birds give names to ghosts and raise them as their own
Truth is a figment of your imagination
And the telephone is the wire around your neck
Hung up with wishes across the grand suburbia
Our zeitgeist is a harlot
She teaches us that duty justifies submission. It doesn't
There is salt in the street but the banks are empty
From weeping like the chorus torn from our lungs
We never quite grasped the idea of morality
When ethics were fed through hospital tubes
And sometimes they throw bricks through our open windows
Just to pick the shards of glass from our children's eyes
Bones are the most hollow of structures
And cortexial limbs can't swim these waters
Or write salvation on crumbling walls
Down at the harbour the air tastes of c
Will die an arabA lot of people will denyWill die an arab11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but I don't care and I will stand up high
for who am I,
and for what God chose me to be
I'll be the best I can be
Im proud to say I am an Arab with all its means
no matter what disrespect i might get
let them say savages barbarians or illiterates,
it doesn't matter to me
what matters the most is me
and how I treat thee
I treat people as individuals
Regardless their race color or religion
I am here for certain years
Then I'll disappear
To a world where only sins and deeds rule
The records are set ready for that day
You and I shall not prepare what to say
Who and what surrounds us shall speak
A moment when we are most terrified
An old good word we've said may come
Reminds us of what darkness we've lit
take my word and remember this
What makes a person special
Not the tongue that he talks by
Nor the religion he defends
It's the number of people he has helped
It's how many false he has regret
At the end with joy I would say
I was born an Arab
Blood OrangesrarelyBlood Oranges5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
is water mixed
into the drinking-lead
of this neighborhood,
it rarely factors
into the weight or when
packed and bagged
here, time throws stones
and hops over
of the upright, now
no longer so,
postures for battle,
to happen, for
a human timer's flinch
to trigger its release
and each particle
like oranges, fallen
from the torn
short, dropped orbits
of thud and concrete
stopped and stuck
on the surface tension
of a puddle, once a person
once a planet
of possibilities, somehow
to find its sun,
to be unborn, and here
a screaming mother sifts
through asteroid gravel,
the tape and barricades
of a universe just ended
Sorrow of the WriterThe writer writes.Sorrow of the Writer9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The artist draws.
The writer reads.
The artist watches.
The writer depends on words.
The artist depends on shapes.
The writer uses letters.
The artist uses color.
I feel so much sorrow, my lack of artistic talents reflect upon my own life.
I wish I could express my thoughts and feelings into pictures.. into shapes and color.
But I cannot, I'm only a writer.
I'm a shapeshifter of words.
I'm an expression of letters.
I'm a shadow behind the page.
The artist hogs the spotlight, takes away the observants.
I lay in wait, looking for someone to comment, fav, or even take I liking into my poetry and stories.
I want to have the spotlight, to be the best... the best word shifter.. the best writer.
My sorrow continues on, for the artist is always on the light.
I'm forced to wait in shadow until my words become known.
For now.. I shall wait.. until someone dodges the artist... and comes to me...
HomophobiaI don't mind if you're straight, as long as you don't show it in public. I kind of find it disrespectful.Homophobia5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
So when did you turn straight?
I've nothing against heterosexuals, but I think they shouldn't be allowed to marry; it's too old-fashioned for our modern society.
I don't want heterosexuals in the armed forces; they could turn all of our soldiers straight.
I've not nothing against a heterosexual family, I mean, what if their kids get bullied because they have an mum and a dad or something? I'd hate that to happen, in some cases it might to better for them to stay in a home or something.
Stop labelling yourself as straight; you don't know that until you've kissed someone of the opposite sex.
Everyone is born gay; some develop heterosexually when they reach puberty.
But straight people have more a risk of catching STDs than gays.
When did you come out to your family as being straight?
I'd prefer it if you didn't hug me actually, we're friends and all, but I just feel uncomfortable bec
AlimentacaoAlimentaçãoAlimentacao4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Quem come à R$ 29,90
de certo que a cabeça não esquenta
e no final quiç'ainda dá gorjeta.
Molho madeira, azeite extra virgem?
Na barraca da tia, só croquete, nem quibe.
Aspargos, couve-flor e maionese?
Mostarda Heinz, alcaparras e gergelim?
Come devagar e no final sorri?
Enquanto isso na calçada da rua
a salsicha esquenta
o purê de batata fervendo
cobre o pão de vinagrete e desejo.
Enche a pança do trabalhador
que lambe os beiços
que é pra não sentir dor.
Refresquinho de caju à R$ 1,50?
Quero ver se a madame se contenta.
Mas isso sempre foi assim
não tem jeito
quem tem come bem
quem não tem, come mal
mas come também.
Meio-dia e 53 minutos de 20 de dezembro de 2011.